I don’t know what time it was when I woke up. It wasn’t a restful sleep, more like a fitful doze where you are thinking something and then you wake, still thinking about the same thing, and aren’t certain whether you slept or not.
Certainly I had no shortage of things to occupy my mind. I kept reliving the sensation of stepping on the larvae. It had felt exactly like stepping on a grape and feeling it pop underfoot. I was never going to eat grapes again. Possibly I was never going to eatanythingagain.
When I did dream, it was an endless sensation of things crawling on my skin, jerking me awake to slap at something that wasn’t there.
They can’t get into your nose or mouth, I told myself.You don’t have any open wounds. You’re as safe as you can be.
I only wish that I believed it.
When the shed door opened, it took me a moment to realize that it was really happening. I scrambled to my feet as light filled the narrow space and threw a hand over my eyes, blinking back tears.
“Wha…?” I said. For a moment I thought I was back at the school and expected Headmistress Silverton to scold me for oversleeping.
“Miss Wilson,” said Phelps, and memory crashed back down over me.
He stood in the doorway watching me uncertainly, as ifIwas the dangerous one. I wished like hell that I was.I should havetaken the metal pan and lain in wait and bashed him over the head with it.Granted, there was only about a three-inch clearance between the door and the drape and he would probably have been expecting it, granted he was a great deal stronger than I was and that I was coming off a malaria flare-up and had just witnessed a baffling horror…fine, okay, perhaps that was an unrealistic expectation. Still.
“Did you bring water?” I croaked. My throat was very dry, but no power on earth would have induced me to drink the water pooling in the room below.
Phelps had a lantern in one hand and… was that apicnic basketlooped over his arm?
It was. There was even a gingham cloth over the top.Dear god, this must still be a nightmare. Surely real life is never this surreal.Phelps hung the lantern on the wall and closed the door, then pulled a flask from the basket and offered it to me. I unscrewed the top and drank greedily through the mesh, soaking it. Water hit the back of my throat like a benediction.
“Thank you,” I said, lowering the bottle, then grimaced at my own reflexive courtesy.No, it’s good to stay polite. There is no point in antagonizing him.Phelps nodded.
“Brought you food,” he said, clearing his throat. He flipped the cloth back and offered me the basket, which held biscuits and cheese.
The thought of food was utterly revolting, but I was going to have to eat if I wanted to keep my strength up. It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I’d eat them later, but it occurred to me that I would have to remove the netting in order to eat, and if Phelps wasn’t here, I’d have to do it in the dark. I retreated to the far corner with the basket, picked up a biscuit, thoughtI will never be able to eat this, then took a bite and realized that my body was ravenous, even if my mind wasn’t.
I looked in vain for a knife to cut the food, but of course Phelps hadn’t provided one. I settled for alternating bites of cheese andbiscuit, washed down with sips of water, while Phelps leaned against the wall and silently watched me eat.
The biscuit was very crumbly and fell apart when I bit into it. I brushed the crumbs off the front of my dress self-consciously, annoyed with myself. If you are kidnapped by a strange religious fanatic who is holding you captive in a shed with horrors below it, it seems like you should not have to worry about your table manners, and yet…
When I had finished, I carefully wiped my mouth with the cloth, folded it neatly, and deliberately met my captor’s eyes. “Thank you,” I said again.
He looked away. “I regret the necessity, Miss Wilson.”
“Ironically,” I said, “there wasn’t one. I had thought that all this”—I waved toward the stairs—“was part of the delirium from the malaria. It did not seem possible that it was real.”
Phelps blinked at me. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
He winced. “Ah,” he said. He lifted a hand and scratched at the back of his head, where the bandage hung askew. “That explains it.” He took a deep breath. “My apologies then, Miss Wilson. It seems I’ve made a mess of things.”
There was genuine anguish in his voice. Could I use that? I chose my words carefully. “I don’t know what is going on,” I said, “or what Dr. Halder is doing down there.” IthoughtI had, until the squirrel. Now I couldn’t even begin to guess. “Obviously you do, Mr. Phelps.”
“I don’t understand all the science of it,” he said cautiously.
“I’m not concerned with the science,” I said, which was only partly a lie. I would probably have found the science fascinating if I had been reading about it in a journal in the sunlight a long way away. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“The Devil,” he said. “It’s the Devil down there.”
“I believe you,” I said. Normally this would be a lie, but given that I had just seen a man eat a live rodent like an apple, all betswere off. Anyway, I wasn’t planning to argue with Phelps if I could help it. “I was skeptical before, but—err—my eyes have been opened.”
“Yes,” he said distractedly. “I wired the doctor.”
I honestly wasn’t sure if Halder’s presence was going to help me or not. He’d already shot one man, maybe he’d just shoot me too. Could I pretend interest in the science?
